


Must See: Mystery Shack

by guilty_pleasures_abound



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Age Difference, Condoms, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Doggy Style, F/M, Flirting, Mystery Shack, Older Man/Younger Woman, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Pet Names, Pre-Canon, Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 12:26:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17981315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guilty_pleasures_abound/pseuds/guilty_pleasures_abound
Summary: You're a travel writer, putting together an article of the pacific northwest's weirdest, most tourist-trap stops on the map. When you entered the Mystery Shack as part of your trip, you could have never anticipated just how up-close-and-personal you would end up getting with its colorful proprietor.[Female reader]





	Must See: Mystery Shack

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place before the Mystery twins arrive in Gravity Falls; I love them, but they would have been a total cockblock in this story.

When your boss asked you to do a fun summer article on the tourist traps of the pacific northwest, you thought it would just be an awesome excuse for a road trip. Company credit card, the open road, and a plethora of weird, ridiculous roadside attractions to spend a couple weeks seeing? For someone who loved kitchy nonsense like that, it was easily shaping up to be one of the best work assignments you'd ever had.

You had finished Washington a couple days ago, making your way down from Seattle, and had moved on to Oregon's beautiful Redwood Highway. So far, the giant ball of yarn was neat, but a little lacking in other things to do besides look at it. The corn maze was excellent, so long as you weren't traumatized by _Kids of the Korn_ as a child. Then there was Log Land, which was amusing, but boy were wooden roller coasters rough on your back. Upside-Down Town was so far the coolest, Mystery Mountain the creepiest, and House Shoe the smelliest. The Big Pan had the best food on-site, and frankly you didn't even want to mention The Big Thing.

Next up was The Mystery Shack, home of taxidermied oddities and “unexplained phenomena.” It looked like a knock-off _Cripley's Believe It or Don’t_ museum to you, but you paid it a visit anyway.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” called out a loud, gruff voice.

You stood with a small group of fellow tourists just inside the entrance to the Shack, waiting for your tour guide to appear to take your through. You guessed this was him.

“I’m the founder of this fine establishment, the one and only Mr Mystery!”

Mr Mystery was a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, square-jawed man somewhere in his late 50s or early 60s by the look of him, wearing a black suit with a red ribbon tie and a red fez, an eyepatch covering one eye and a cane topped with an eight ball in one hand. He was certainly the most memorable proprietor you had encountered so far, and you had a feeling you were going to like him.

“Prepare to be amazed, inspired, _dazzled!_ ”

You gave a quiet little snort. You doubted “dazzled” was a sensation experienced by anybody coming through the Mystery Shack.

“You will behold wonders unlike anything else in the world here at the Mystery Shack! So step this way, _if you daaaaare!_ ” he said the last bit in an exaggerated spooky voice, waggling his rather bushy eyebrows and grinning as he began to lead the way.

His eight-ball topped cane occasionally tapped the floor as he enthusiastically narrated your journey, recounting the tales of each oddity and artifact.

You were right, in that “dazzled” would never be a word you’d associate with the Mystery Shack, but “delighted” certainly was. It was the perfect blend of campy and creepy, but it was the tour guide's flare for puns that really sold you on the place.

You even started writing some of them down to incorporate into your article later; Sascrotch, Corn-icorn, Thigh-clops, Six-pack-alope. They were all equally silly and wonderful in your eyes, the perfect nonsense for a tourist trap like this. By the time the tour ended and Mr Mystery had lead you all into the gift shop, you knew there was no way you were getting out of there without some Mystery Shack merch.

You got distracted at the question mark t-shirts, grinning at their design.

“Alright kid, what’s the deal?”

You looked up at the rough sound of Mr Mystery’s voice to find him standing rather close to you, a frown on his face and his arms crossed suspiciously. You blanked for a second, taken aback by his apparent displeasure with you. What the hell had you done?

“I... beg your pardon?”

“No tourist takes notes as they go through the Mystery Shack. So what’s the deal? You a spy or something? Did that kook from Upside-Down Town send you? The government? Who!”

You weren’t sure if you wanted to know why this guy thought the government was spying on him, so you didn’t ask, but you held your hands up placatingly.

“No! Relax, Mystery Man, I’m not a spy. I’m a travel writer, alright? I was taking notes for an article.”

His suspicious glare changed so fast you could have swore it gave you whiplash, replaced by a look of intense interest.

“Travel writer?” he repeated keenly, and you had a feeling you had just unleashed a beast by giving him that little nugget of information.

“Mm-hm,” you hummed, and a big grin spread over his face.

“Why didn’t you say so! You need any photos for the article? I'm very photogenic, y'know.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows at you, and you couldn't help but giggle.

“I'll consider it,” you hedged, “depends on whether the press get a discount on t-shirts.”

“HA!” he barked. “Nice one, kid.”

You laughed and shrugged. “Worth a try. You wouldn't even consider a discounted postcard?”

“That depends,” he countered, raising an eyebrow at you behind his square glasses. “How big is my picture gonna be in your article?”

You laughed again; oh he was good. Businessman through and through, this one.

“Hmm, I dunno. If you're going to be the big photo for the article I'll really need to interview you. Think you've got time for that?”

He was exactly the kind of personality that would fit well with the tone of the article; quirky, funny, larger-than-life. Just like the Mystery Shack he created.

His eyes lit up, but he scratched his stubbly chin thoughtfully, looking back into the showroom of the Shack. “Damn. I'd love to, kid, but there's still a line for the next tour.”

“I can wait.” You already had a motel room reserved in Gravity Falls, all that you had planned for the evening was dinner and organising your notes for the article. “Or I can come back later?”

He smiled, tugging on his lapels to smooth his suit as he straightened. “Last tour's at 5:30, that work for ya?”

“Sure does, Mr Mystery.”

He laughed then, a loud, boisterous sound that made you laugh too. “Call me Stan, doll. Stan Pines.”

You introduced yourself in return, holding your hand out for him to shake. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Stan.”

His hand was huge, completely engulfing yours as he returned the firmness of your grip equally, then flipped up the corner of his eyepatch—revealing a perfectly functional eye, so far as you could tell—in order to give you a wink before he let go to return to the museum’s main room.

You couldn’t help but grin, giving your head an amused shake; he was quite the character, alright.

Despite your tease about wanting a discount, you walked away from the Shack with several purchases; a snowglobe for your desk back home, several postcards, and a bumper sticker. All stupidly overpriced, but Stan had already endeared himself to you enough for you to fork over the cash to a bored, red-haired teenager at the register with little remorse.

Then all you had to do was wait. It was mid-afternoon, leaving you with a couple hours to burn, so you decided to head back to your motel for a shower. You were drying your hair when a familiar voice came over the speakers on the television you had on as background noise.

“Hi, I'm Mr Mystery!”

Your eyes were drawn to the screen with a little laugh, watching Stan fumble his way through a pretty terrible commercial for the Mystery Shack. Honestly, the more you saw of the guy, the more charmed you were by him. He was an unscrupulous con man to be sure, but there was something strangely magnetic about him.

Maybe that was why you were so focused on picking out the perfect clothes for your trip back to the Shack; you had taken the tour that day in a casual tank shirt and shorts, appropriate for the summer heat, but something about meeting Stan for a private conversation made you feel like you had to look a bit more... professional. You _told_ yourself professionalism was the goal, anyway, though the blue dress you picked out may or may not have been the same one you wore on a date four months ago...

Hopefully this interview would go more smoothly than that date had.

You arrived back at the Mystery Shack at 5:20, but the place seemed pretty empty; only one other car parked in the lot, and you had to wonder if it was Stan's. You slung your messenger bag over your shoulder as you got out of your car, heading toward the entrance to the gift shop; you could waste some time in there until 5:30, when you planned on doing the tour again with the last group, just for the hell of it.

Instead you found the red-haired girl who had worked the register on her way out, and you paused awkwardly.

“Oh... is the Shack closed?”

She gave you an up and down look, and you wondered if she recognized you from earlier.

“Technically not, but no one's come by for the tour in an hour, so the old man's sending me home.”

“Oh,” you answered. “Well, I'm supposed to meet him—”

“Go through the employee door by the vending machine.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “Last I saw he's drinking a Pitt Cola in the living room.”

With that, she hopped down the steps and started walking, leaving you standing at the gift shop door.

“Uh... okay then.”

 _This feels like an invasion of privacy,_ you thought, fiddling with the strap on your bag as you stepped into the gift shop. The door she had referenced was directly in front of you, and you were relieved to see it was one of those swinging doors with a gap at the top and bottom; good, you could try just calling out for him instead of pushing your way into areas unknown.

“Mr Pines?” you tried. You could hear a television, and you guessed it was coming from the room on the other side of the door.

You sighed with relief when you heard a shuffle, a little groan, and a second later the door was swinging open.

Stan paused when he saw you, seemingly caught off guard, and you raised your eyebrows at him questioningly. Had he forgotten that he agreed to talk to you? His tie was undone, along with the first two buttons of his shirt, and he was, indeed, holding a can of Pitt Cola; seemingly winding down for the day, since the flow of customers had dwindled.

“Mr Pines?” you said his name again, and it seemed to snap him out of it.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” he muttered, coming the rest of the way through the door and rubbing the back of neck awkwardly. “You just, uh... look real nice.”

 _Oh._ You were definitely not expecting that, and you felt a blush rise to your cheeks.

“Oh. Thank you,” you gave him a little smile, smoothing your hands over your dress. “It's one of my favorites, it has pockets!”

You slid your hands into the pockets to show him, and he smiled with a laugh.

“Is that a rare thing for dresses? It’s been a while since I’ve shopped for one.” His smirk told you he was being sarcastic, and you laughed with a shake of your head.

“Pity, I’m sure you’d look great in a dress.” You grinned, and he gave you another one of his boisterous laughs.

“Damn good!” he joked with a wink, making you notice that his eyepatch was nowhere in sight. “Say, why don’t you come back into the house, have a drink?”

“No more tours today, then?” you asked, but stepped through the “employee” door as he held it open for you anyway.

“Nah, haven’t had anyone come up this way since 4:30. It’s like that sometimes, people get hungry for an early dinner I guess.”

“Shame,” you said with a shrug, “I was gonna go through again.”

He looked pleased by that, grinning at you as he lead you through a dim living room (was that a t-rex skull as a side table?) and into the kitchen.

“Well...” he hummed thoughtfully, getting a Pitt Cola out of the fridge and popping it open for you. “I supposed I could do a private tour, if ya ask nicely enough.”

You took the cold drink with a smile, then lightly tapped it against his with a quiet “Cheers” before taking a sip.

“I would be absolutely delighted by a private tour, Mr Pines, if you would be ever so kind?”

He laughed, a sound you were really starting to like, if you were being honest, and he put a hand in the middle of your back to guide you back toward the museum. “Call me Stan. And I’d be happy to.”

As the two of you walked through the museum again, you interspersed his tour talking points with questions, using your phone to record the informal interview. You asked him how long he had been running the Mystery Shack (nearly thirty years, and was apparently first called the Murder Hut; you agreed that Mystery Shack was far less intimidating as a name), some of the exhibits he’d had in the past (a “live mermaid” was a hit the year _The Smallest Mermaid_ came out), any notable visitors (a boxer you were unfamiliar with, but Stan assured you was “a big deal” back in the day), and if he had any favorite displays or his favorite “artifact” story to tell (one in the same; a gripping tale of danger and near-disaster as he battled the elements to recover the now taxidermied remains of the “sas-crotch”).

All the while, Stan’s hand never left your back, and you couldn’t say that you minded. It was still a marvel to you how big it was, his broad palm and thick fingers spanning most of your back, warm even through the fabric of your dress. You didn’t even mind when he drifted his fingers down to curl around your side, squeezing playfully as he put on a show of telling you the spooky origins of a rather disarming amalgamation contained in a glass case. You played right along, gasping for dramatic effect at the appropriate times and leaning against his side, ducking your head in close to listen when he lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper.

“Ever consider acting, Stan?” you couldn’t help but ask him; he certainly had a flair for dramatic effect.

He chortled, shaking his head. “Nah, I’ve met Hollywood people. They’re scarier than anything I’ve got in here!”

That might be true, but it didn’t change the fact that he would be great at it, and you informed him so.

“Also doesn’t hurt that you’re certainly handsome enough for Hollywood,” you couldn’t help but add, heat spreading over your features as soon as the words left your mouth. Did you actually just say that out loud?

His eyes widened for a moment before he smiled broadly, squeezing you against his side with a little laugh. “Babydoll, you are just making my day, you know that?”

Your knees absolutely did _not_ get weak from him calling you babydoll. Nope. Absolutely not. That would be preposterous, he was old enough to be your dad, certainly, plus he was probably just being all cozy to make sure you said nice things about the place in your article.

“I bet you say that to all the travel writers,” you found your voice to say.

Stan chuckled, his fingers tightening slightly around the curve of your side. “Nah, come on. Never had one come through that was as pretty as you, for starters.”

“You’re already getting a good write up, Mr Pines, there’s no need to flatter me.”

“I ain’t flattering you for the good press, honey.” You felt his thumb rub gently against your side, not tickling, just nice, soft strokes that made you break out in goosebumps.

Then he reached across you with his other hand, and you thought for a moment that he was about to embrace you, but no—he simply took your empty Pitt can out of your hand, throwing both his and yours away in the trash bin by the wall, next to a somewhat creepy jackalope. The proximity still made you blush, much to your embarrassment.

It made you take a moment to reevaluate; were you really getting all flustered and hot under the collar for this guy? He was a fair amount older than you, and owned a place that was once called the “Murder Hut,” which was full of weird dead things that all had puns for names. On this road trip of weird you were on, were you really hoping that the fez-wearing Mr Mystery would be one of your hookups?

Apparently yes, as it turned out.

You turned off the recording function on your phone, sliding it into your bag as you bit your lip.

“Then why are you flattering me, Mystery Man?” you finally asked quietly, slowly sliding your arm across the small of his back, which was apparently all the greenlight he needed.

He shifted slightly to bring you around from his side to his chest, and you had half a second to anticipate what he might do before he was doing it—the other one of his wonderfully big hands coming up to cup the back of your head as he pressed his lips to yours. You gasped a little in surprise, your arm across his lower back tightening, the other grabbing a fistful of his jacket, then it just felt like you were melting; leaning against his chest, letting him deepen the kiss with a little moan.

You could say this for the guy; Stan Pines was a really good kisser. Warm, soft, sweet; not too wet, not too invasive, which you could not say for everyone you had kissed before. Paired with the way he was holding you—the warmth of his hand on your head, the curl of his arm across your back—and you were feeling legitimately weak in the knees.

“Oh wow...” you couldn’t help but murmur dreamily when his lips parted from yours, still holding you close but giving you a moment to catch your breath, and he chuckled with a little squeeze around your waist.

“Oh I like hearing that,” he murmured, his fingers gently rubbing behind your ear, making you blush and shiver with the sensation.

“Shut up, Pines.”

He chuffed in amusement, so you let go of your grip on his jacket to put your hand on the back of his neck instead, pulling him in for another kiss. You could feel him grinning a little against your mouth, cheeky man, so you nibbled his lip a little in retaliation.

It was his turn to shiver with a little moan, making you feel victorious all the way down to your toes, and more than a little damp in your underwear. Idly, you thought of the “just in case” condom in your bag, and couldn’t help but wonder if you were about to get to use it.

The direction the kiss was going seemed to suggest so; the intensity slowly ratcheting up, Stan’s hand subtly shifting lower, creeping toward your ass, and you had to admit you were eager for him to get there. The thought was almost embarrassing; the idea of getting felt up in the middle of a room full of taxidermied oddities shouldn’t have been that exciting.

Yet somehow it was, and you shifted your hand a little higher up his neck, his hair brushing your fingers. It was a little course, but shockingly thick, and you curiously petted your hand upward, the warm strands sliding between your fingers until you met the bottom of his fez. Carelessly you pushed under it, knocking it askew as you curled your fingers in a gentle scratch against his scalp.

He moaned again, soft and encouraging, so you took the initiative to take the hat off entirely, reaching up and gripping the tassel.

“Hey,” he huffed playfully as you tugged it off, letting it drop to the floor unceremoniously, but you just hummed softly in acknowledgement as you dug your fingers into his hair.

It felt divine when he started mirroring you; his digits stroking against the back of your head and neck, blunt fingernails scratching a gentle massage as his lips started to trail from your mouth down to your neck.

You gave a soft moan, tilting your head back eagerly, and Stan wasted no time finding the most sensitive spot on your throat with shocking efficiency.

“Holy shit,” you breathed, tightly clenching your hand in his hair, giving it a little tug when he sucked softly at the delicate skin under your jaw, making you gasp. Next thing you knew, Stan was bending his knees slightly so he could hook his forearm just under your ass, lifting you a good inch or two off the floor and moving you backwards.

You gasped, tightening your grip on him in surprise, but wherever he was taking you was a short trip—barely a few feet—before the back of your legs collided with something solid. Whatever it was, he was sitting you on it, and knowing the weird stuff that was collected in this room, you were afraid to look and see what it was.

“Do I even want to know what I’m sitting on?” you asked him as he took your bag off your shoulder, setting it next to you with a _thunk_ before giving a course chuckle as he resumed kissing your neck.

“Probably not.”

You shook your head with a sigh and he chuckled again, but the feeling of his hand petting up the outside of your thigh and under your dress hem became far more consuming of your thoughts. He huffed in annoyance when his fingers found the fabric of the little shorts you were wearing underneath, and for some reason his irritation made you laugh.

“What, disappointed it’s not a thong? That only happens in porn, Pines.”

His hand slipped further up and back to pinch your ass, and the sharp sting of it made you gasp and squirm with a startled cry.

“Just checking to see if your ass was as cheeky as your mouth,” he snickered, setting his teeth against your collarbone with a little nip, and you just barely resisted the urge to push him.

“Keep that up and you won't get the privilege of seeing my ass at all,” you informed him with a huff.

“That so?” he challenged teasingly, pulling back to give you a smirk that was far too cocky. “Hm... that's alright. There are other parts of you I can enjoy.”

You could feel your face flush when his hands came up to cup your breasts, his gaze flicking down to the increased cleavage his touch created, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.

“God, you're sexy,” he murmured, the shift in his tone from smarmy to almost reverent earning him a bit more of your favor back. His head ducking down to kiss warmly along the neckline of your dress before drifting lower—over your still-covered chest, then your belly, sinking slowly to his knees on the floor with a little grunt—all but ensured that his naughty pinch was completely forgiven.

Then his hands slid under your dress again, pushing the fabric up so he could get to the waist of your shorts, tugging both them and your underwear down in one fell swoop. It made your heart start to race, lifting your hips to allow him to pull them down and off, watching his face when you spread your knees for him eagerly. His low, longing groan made you unexpectedly hot, biting your lip and holding tight to his shoulders in anticipation when he pressed his mouth against the inside of your thigh.

God, the tickling scratch of his stubble made you feel electrified, all the nerve endings under his lips lighting up at the sensation. He was such a tease about it, too; kissing and rubbing his mouth and cheeks against the inside of each thigh slowly, eyes closed and face relaxed in what seemed to be pure enjoyment. Which was all well and good, save for the fact that you were panting and squirming, dying for him to put his mouth between your legs.

“God, Stan, please,” you eventually whined, unable to refrain any longer, and his eyes fluttered open to look up at you heatedly. “Put your mouth on me, _please._ ”

He flashed a satisfied half smile, making the color in your cheeks intensify, but thankfully did exactly what you were asking of him.

And oh... _**oh.**_ If you thought Stan's mouth was good at kissing, it paled in comparison to how good he was down there. How each deft swipe of his tongue made your legs tremble, the muscles jumping and twitching with each purposeful lick, pleasure racing through your nervous system in tiny shocks.

“Oh god,” you gasped, one of your hands keeping its tight grip on the shoulder of his suit as the other sank into his hair encouragingly. His hands, meanwhile, reminded you just how big and warm they were by curling around the inside of your knees to keep you open for him. “Oh my _fucking_ god...”

He didn't let up for a moment, panting and groaning himself as he worked his mouth, relentlessly licking pleasure against your clit with that goddamn silver tongue of his. It was crazy, it was amazing, and him adding his fingers a couple minutes later just turned the dial up to ten.

You were almost embarrassed by the gratuitously slick sound it made when his finger slipped between your folds, sliding easily inside your body as Stan groaned against your clit.

“You gonna let me in there, baby?” he moaned dreamily, curling his finger and rocking his hand, making you shudder with a moan of your own. “You gonna let me fill you up nice and good?”

Holy _hell_ you couldn't believe hearing that gruff voice dirty talk you could crank your dial so hard, but that's exactly what it did, leaving you squirming and clenching with a gasped groan.

“God, yes, please, just—” your voice cut off when he sucked greedily on your clit, still curling and rocking his finger inside you as he worked his tongue along with every little suck. “Fuck, _fuck_ just get me to come and you can fuck me anyway you _want_.”

It wouldn't be hard for him to get you there; not with the way his tongue was working, not with how turned on and close he had already made you. But your words seemed to spur him into overdrive, his tongue flicking rapidly with a long, soft groan as a second finger found it's way inside of you; thick and strong and perfect.

“Oh, oh, oh...” you couldn't seem to stop panting, that tell-tale tingle spreading through your pelvis, mounting and mounting until—

Your peak crested in a sudden burst, shuddering pleasure through you in a sharp rush. You couldn’t help but whine, and Stan’s happy, satisfied moan just made it all the better, his tongue working you through it tirelessly until it was too much, until you squirmed away from his mouth with a sharp gasp.

His lips landed on your leg instead, his panting breath almost ticklish as he laid messy, eager, sloppy kisses along your inner thighs.

He wiped his mouth when he finally stood up, wincing a little (his knees undoubtedly stiff from kneeling on the hard floor) and his flush trailing down his face and under his collar. You couldn't help but wonder if the pink extended down onto his chest, and you were eager to find out.

You grabbed a fistful of his shirt, pulling him closer to you, and he went with a happy little grin as his hands settled on your still-spread knees.

“Come ‘ere,” you murmured, sliding your fingers into the hair on the back of his head again and reeling him in for a kiss, a hot little thrill running through you at the taste of yourself on his lips.

“Good, sweetheart?” he murmured, his palms sliding up and down your legs a few times before trailing up your sides to give a little squeeze to your chest.

“Really good,” you answered, hooking your ankles against the backs of his thighs warmly, your fingers plucking the buttons on his shirt undone in a quick line.

“Wait, uh—”

Too late, you were already scratching your fingers though the thick chest hair revealed by the deep U neck in his undershirt. An undershirt that was very clearly some kind of shapewear; the thick, compressing fabric definitely being used to slim what had to be a somewhat prominent belly.

His face went the deeper red of embarrassment, his hands closing around your wrists, but honestly? He had nothing to be embarrassed about; by wearing something like that nor by the natural shape of his body.

“You just gave me amazing oral in the middle of a room full of taxidermy,” you couldn’t help but laugh, leaning in to give him a reassuring kiss. “You really think I care about this?”

He chortled, letting go of your wrists to cup your head, and you very happily wrapped your arms around him as he gave you a warm, drawn-out kiss.

“Think that says more about your standards than mine, kid,” he teased quietly, and you pinched his ass in retaliation; it was only fair, after he had done it to you earlier. “Hey!”

“I’m not even answering that.” You gave him a chastising look, and before he could get another smart-ass quip in, you slid a hand down to the front of his trousers.

His gasp and shudder were immeasurably satisfying, his eyes slipping half closed as you palmed the hard bulge through the fabric exploringly.

“Hm, all this for me?” you asked him in a quiet tease, giving him a little squeeze that made him groan and bite his lip, his hands sliding down your body from your head to your hips. “Aren’t I lucky.”

You thought again of the condom in your bag as you went for his belt buckle; you’d definitely be using it today, there was no doubt about that.

He finally shed his jacket as you worked on the button and zip of his pants, the heavy piece of clothing falling carelessly to the floor to join your shorts and underwear, leaving him looking strangely sexy in just his unbuttoned shirt, his tie still hanging around his neck and his trousers undone. You took a moment to notice the hilariously striped boxers he was wearing before dipping your hand under the waistband, getting your fingers around the hard length that was clearly dying to be freed from the confining fabric.

He groaned as you pulled him out, your fingers stroking and exploring, your mouth practically watering at the nice thick girth filling your hand.

“God, please just tell me you’re not allergic to latex,” you murmured as you let him go to root through your bag, which was somehow still right next to you.

“Huh?” he asked distractedly, brain definitely not firing on all cylinders until you pulled the condom from the little side pocket with a triumphant grin. “Oh! Nah, baby, we’re good.”

“Good,” you agreed, ripping the packet open even as you leaned in to kiss his chest, the chest hair poking out of the neck of his undershirt amusingly rough against your lips.

“Fuck you’re so thick,” you found yourself murmuring out loud, rolling the thin rubber down his length with barely contained excitement. Your enthusiasm seemed to please him immensely, his hands traveling restlessly over you as his dick twitched in your grip.

“So I’ve been told.” You could hear the smile in his voice, and you tried to pull him in by the hips, wanting to feel that thickness far more intimately than just in your hand.

“Hang on a second, sugar.” He pulled back, and you knew your face had to convey your disappointed confusion. Still he grinned at you, pressing a string of kisses along your neck with a chuckle. “Pretty sure you said if I could make you come, I could fuck you however I wanted.”

Shit, you had said that, hadn’t you?

“Well then?” you prompted him, and the next thing you knew he was pulling you off the surface you were sitting on, your feet meeting the floor for a confusing moment before he was spinning you around and you found yourself bent over... a display case. With a somewhat creepy “mermaid” in it.

“Stan Pines, I cannot believe you ate me out on top of a monkey-fish hybrid,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands to block out its horrifying visage from your line of sight.

He laughed, loud and boisterous, the jerk, but a moment later he was pulling you back upright to throw his discarded jacket over it. “Better, babydoll?”

It was embarrassing, how much you were willing to forgive him when he called you that.

You gave an incredulous laugh of your own, pressing your head down on his jacket for a moment and shaking it side to side with amused disbelief, but then you twisted back to pull his stupid face down for a kiss anyway.

“Just shut up and fuck me, Pines.”

“Yes ma’am,” he purred, hands fisting in the fabric of your dress and shoving it up.

The steady press of him inside you a moment later made you gasp, forgetting all about the ridiculousness of getting fucked over a taxidermy display. If you thought he felt thick in your hand it was nothing to how he felt inside you, the stretch so satisfying without being overwhelming. Then he started _talking_ , and your knees actually went weak; thank god this display had already proved sturdy enough to hold your weight.

“Goddamn, what a perfect cunt,” he growled, one hand on your hip and the other on your shoulder, holding you down, holding you still when the pace and strength of his thrusts started to mount. “You feel so good, sweetheart, you should see how you look right now.”

You could imagine it; your dress bunched at your waist, your underwear gone, holding tight to Stan’s jacket under you, his cock undoubtedly shiny with your fluids as he sank inside you again and again. It was fucking slutty, is what it was, filthy in all the very best ways.

“That ass, baby, I’ve been thinking about that ass all day.” He jerked in a little harder as if to prove his point, the lewd smack of his hips against your cheeks almost echoing in the high-roofed room. It made you gasp, your pussy clenching reflexively in pleasure, and his answering groan slid right into your nervous system as a wave of heat.

Mercifully, he fell silent after that, the only sounds in the big room becoming the panting groans from you both, the wet sound of his thrusts, the impact of his hips.

“Fuck,” you groaned, pressing your face down against his jacket, the smell of his cologne clinging to it, making your head feel fuzzy as your body hummed with sensation. When you started your day, there was no way you could have anticipated this; no way you could have possibly predicted that the showy, gruff-voiced proprietor of the Mystery Shack would be fucking you like a goddamn champ while you shook and squirmed with pleasure.

Then his weight shifted down to lean over you, his body hot and his breath ragged against the back of your neck, and you just knew he was getting close; it was in the way he curled his arm under your shoulder posessively, the rhythm of his hips starting to stutter, the breathless way he groaned.

You could get there again too, you felt sure of it; you managed to get a hand down to your clit, a final push of pleasure that made you whine and clench, and Stan lost all semblance of finesse. It was a messy, uncoordinated sprint to the end, both of you working for your own pleasure fervently, greedily, until the edge of Stan’s teeth sank firmly into the back of your neck with a punch-drunk moan and that was it; you were falling apart again with a breathless cry.

“Shit,” he rasped in answer, hips stuttering and grinding in a final hard thrust that you swore made the whole display case under you squeak warningly.

That was... that was something else. You felt a little out of it, honestly, your cheek laying on Stan’s jacket as you caught your breath, cataloging all the pleasantly sore muscles you were already feeling, his breath huffing loudly against the back of your neck. When Stan finally pulled back you felt him wince, a soft, complaining groan making its way out of his throat.

“Goddamn, I’m getting too old for this,” he groused quietly, and you physically heard his joints pop as he straightened.

You couldn’t help it, you started laughing; the mix of endorphin high from your orgasms and the absolute ridiculousness of the situation just _getting_ to you. You heard him huff, the shuffle of clothes and the sticky sound of him pulling the condom off somehow managing to sound grumpy, so you worked up the energy to get your elbows under you, straightening yourself up to turn and look at him with a wicked grin.

He was giving you a befuddled frown, and that simply would not do, so you reeled him in with a hand on the back of his neck.

“You’re something else, Mr Mystery,” you murmured, kissing him soundly with a contented hum. “I mean really... my legs won’t stop shaking.”

Which was the complete truth, the tremors still shivering through your thighs making it a borderline miracle that you were able to stand up.

He gave a gruff chuckle, wrapping his arms around you tightly, the both of you completely disheveled, kissing again in the middle of the Mystery Shack with a used condom pinched between his fingers. What a fucking day.

“Let me take you to dinner,” he suddenly mumbled, his arms giving you a little squeeze. “Greasy’s ain’t much, but they’ve got a hell of a burger.”

Dinner sounded positively delightful, and your stomach seemed to agree, the mention of food suddenly making you aware of just how hungry you were.

“Hm, I’d be more interested in whether the pancakes are good,” you replied, trailing your lips along his cheek cozily.

He chuckled, his free hand drifting down to squeeze your ass teasingly, but you couldn’t find it in you to complain.

“You bet, baby.”

If he kept calling you baby, you might consider letting him keep your underwear to remember you by.

“Then I’d be honored.”

**Author's Note:**

> I headcanon that Stan gets uncharacteristically generous after a good lay, don't @ me.


End file.
